A Jury of Her Peers
by DarkHorseBlueSky
Summary: Will helps a lawyer find her runaway client, a woman who has murdered her husband. / Inspired by Susan Glaspell's one-act play "Trifles". Set after the end of The Lost Stories but long before Royal Ranger.
1. Chapter 1

**Author's** **Note: just take this self indulgent characterization/worldbuilding exercise for what it's worth and go**

* * *

It was only three days after Halt had retired and there was already a lawyer in Will's front yard.

When she arrived, the sun was just beginning to crawl over the horizon. Both Will and Alyss were up; her inside by the fire, avoiding the chill of the late summer dawn as she recovered from a cold; him nursing a coffee on the front porch. Usually, Alyss would be out here with him, occupying the second wooden chair, and part of him did miss her company. Their morning conversations were always more silence than words, of a companionable silence, a silence that said more than words ever could. But the other part of him savored the solitude. For the first time, he was the only Ranger in Redmont Fief, he was busier than ever, and he only now realized why Halt cherished alone time.

Will inhaled deeply, taking in the scent of coffee and forest, the crisp dew in the air, the peaceful blue light filtering through the translucent leaves. In the stable, he could hear Tug chewing his feed contentedly. At his side, Ebony shifted and lay her head on his feet.

Then Tug abruptly stopped chewing, Ebony lifted her head, and Tug let out a warning call.

A second later, Will heard the hoofbeats; three seconds more and the horse and rider appeared through the trees. The dappled mare was well-groomed; the rider, less so. She was a woman perhaps three years older than Will, unusually dark-skinned, with thick black hair pinned up in a messy bun. She was clad in a modest brown dress with curious strips of cotton bound around her forearms, once white but now speckled and smeared with ink. Every muscle in her body seemed tensed.

"Morning, Ranger Will," she said tersely, riding up to the porch. Ebony barked, curious.

Will hid a sigh. "Good morning, Harley. What brings you here?"

"You haven't heard?" she asked incredulously. "You'd think that a Ranger of all people would be the first to be told of it..."

She trailed off as she, with some struggling, dismounted her horse and fiddled with the leather satchel attached to the saddle. Something apparently went wrong because suddenly, papers and quills were flying everywhere, and Harley was cursing and chasing after the pages.

Will, being the gentleman he was, wearily stood to help her with her troubles. While Harley hastily stuffed her things back in her satchel, Will tied the dappled mare up near Tug's stable. The mare looked an awful lot like one of Baron Arald's, so Harley must have borrowed it for the short journey to Will's cabin.

"It's just been dreadful," Harley rambled, shuffling between three documents in her hands. "I've been awake for three, four hours already and the sun's barely up — they found him at the most unnatural time of night, you know, he must've woken for a second and cried for help because Joan Playford said she heard him, and what's the first thing they do, they come to the Baron and to the one public defense attorney who was up for three hours past sundown proofreading Arald's decree about — "

"Harley." Will put his hand on her shoulder. She was taller than him by a handspan, so it was some reach, but it still cut her off before she could asphyxiate. "Tell me in one sentence what happened. Two if you must."

She looked at him, still breathing hard. Then she managed, "Jack Gibbons was strangled. By his wife. And she's nowhere to be found."

"Oh," said Will.

"'Oh' indeed," replied Harley, folding and unfolding her three documents anxiously.

Will looked past her at the serene, indifferent forest. He sighed, taking in the last of his peaceful morning.

"Let's go inside," he said to Harley. "I think you need a coffee."


	2. Chapter 2

**uncle flanagan never told us how the araluen justice system works on the circuit level so i do that mySELF**

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Will led Harley inside the cabin, where the smell of coffee was strong and the main room was toasty from the fire. Alyss, sitting close to the hearth with a shawl around her shoulders, looked up.

"Good morning, Harley," said Alyss cheerfully, but hoarsely. "Don't get too near me. I've got that headcold, wouldn't want all of Castle Redmont catching it."

"Oh, that really wouldn't do," Harley replied, reaching into her satchel for her things. "I was wondering why I hadn't seen you around as much."

"I'll be back soon. I do miss the recent brouhaha with Lord Fenley and his secretary."

"Indeed."

"There's coffee on the stove, if you'd like, Will's got it."

"Thank you, madam. But I'm here on business."

Will went to the stove and poured a third mug of coffee, exhausting the rest of the pot. The women kept talking even as Will and Harley sat down at the wooden table.

"I heard," said Alyss, raising an eyebrow. "He was strangled, you said?"

"Right around the neck with a twisted sheet. He was sleeping, at least, they say that he was," replied Harley, sipping her coffee.

"And it was his wife?" said Will.

"Well, here's all I know of it." Harley reached to her bag and pulled out a pair of tiny reading glasses and worn leather folder practically bursting with papers. She set the glasses on her frankly quite large nose and held one paper out to read it.

"The first witnesses were Benny and Joan Playford, the Gibbons' neighbors. Joan woke up at about three this morning because, and I quote, 'I sleep light and I'd been woken up by something that sounded like a man yelling for help.' She roused her husband and they ran to the Gibbons' house, but before they could enter, Mrs. Gibbons, and I quote again, 'crashed through the door like the demons of hell was after her, hair all wild, nightgown all torn up, her hands over her face.' Benny Playford tried to stop Mrs. Gibbons, but she slipped past him, ran to the stable, and fled barebacked on a horse. The Playfords then called for Jack Gibbons, but received no response, and found Jack lifeless in his bed with a sheet twisted and knotted around his neck. The Playfords left him there and went immediately to Baron Arald."

"Have you been to the house?" Will asked.

"No one has, besides the Playfords."

"Then why come to me first?"

"Because if I didn't, another attorney would."

Will couldn't help but sigh at that. The parts about being a Ranger that he could never bring himself to like were the legal squabbles. It was one thing tracking down a troublemaker, shooting some arrows, and foiling some evil plans. It was another thing testifying in court as lawyers screamed at each other. Every once in a while, another "race for the Ranger" would come up, where the prosecution and defense would both scramble to get the insight of the Ranger to help them win. What they always seemed to forget was that in a criminal defense trial, all the evidence had to be on the table, and it was not up to the Ranger to take a side or reserve evidence for one side alone.

"Harley, we've been over this," said Will. "You're not going to get a leg up just because I'm helping you — "

"With all due respect, Ranger, but I'm afraid that's not true," Harley cut in, setting down her folder. "As I told you, Mrs. Verity Gibbons is missing."

"I understood that."

"Both the prosecution and I will be searching for her, and the difference in me — for lack of a better term — in me CLAIMING you is the difference between working with you and working with a squadron of bumbling castle footsoldiers who might intimidate her, scare her off. Pardon me, but I would much rather trust you to find a missing client."

Will rubbed his chin. He couldn't say he approved of the partisan nature of this investigation, especially as Harley seemed to be taking the defensive stance. The Ranger loyalty was primarily to the kingdom and its laws; the job was to gather the cold and hard facts in order to protect the people. The cold and hard fact here was, or at least it seemed to be, that a farmer's wife murdered her husband and ran away in fear. Of course someone had to find her. And of course someone had to eventually defend her, weaseling her out of as much punishment as possible. Will just did not like the prospect of creeping out of the first job and into the second.

Harley seemed to sense this. "I know it seems like I'm asking you to be biased, but it's not that. At least, I hope it's not. But for now, all I need is for someone to come with me to the house and take a closer look at things."

"Oh, Will," Alyss put in, "you're going to have to get involved eventually. At least it's for a friend."

"At least it's not George again," Will murmured.

"I wouldn't wish that upon you either," Harley said gravely.

"Fine," Will replied after a moment, "I'll go. But it's for my duty and for the safety of Araluen as a whole, NOT to help my wife's friend win a case."

Pointedly, he stood and went back to his room to get his Ranger cloak and weapons. Harley smiled thinly and sipped her coffee.

"He was more of an idealist when I last worked with him," Harley remarked to Alyss. Alyss shrugged.

"It's age. He likes to pretend that he's so indifferent and grim, just like Halt seemed when Will first met him," Alyss replied. "But there's a little vigilante justice in all Rangers. He'll have picked a side before the sun goes down."


	3. Chapter 3

By the time the Ranger and the attorney arrived at the Gibbons' farm, Harley already knew that she would hate herself for the rest of the day.

Her head ached as if someone had split it halfway with an axe, and her eyes were heavy and begged relief. The coffee had done a little good, but now the weariness was back and all the coffee left was a pungent taste in her mouth. She knew she complained a lot — her single most common answer to a well-meant "how do you do" was a monotoned "I'm pretty damn tired, that's how I do" — but it was now that she began to wonder if even her chronic moaning undermined how big of a problem this was. She had slept two hours in the past day. Eight in the past two days. Eleven hours of sleep in the past three full days, not counting cat naps at her cluttered desk. There was a lot to do as the only pro bono public defender in Redmont.

Apparently, Harley's weariness did not escape Will's notice. "You're not looking very well," he remarked.

"Thanks," she said.

"I didn't mean like that," he corrected himself quickly. "Have you slept at all?"

She pretended to think about that. "Not in the past twenty years, no," she finally told him, then promptly changed the subject. "We're coming up on the house."

They both looked to the distance and saw the cluster of buildings, standing out like ink splotches on the ripe golden fields and clear sky. Two cabins, two barns, two stables, and one well between the plots. Besides the well, the yards were separated by a rickety fence, but the houses were close enough together that, yes, a scream in the middle of the night could have been heard. On the right plot, everything was silent and still. On the left plot, a man and two young farmhands were working with a cow in the stable, looking up suspicously when Harley and Will rode by.

"That's the Playfords' place," said Harley shortly, gesturing to the left plot. "They'll probably be working in the Gibbons' barn and stables here and there, just to keep the animals alive. But they won't bother us."

They rode into the right plot, and Will peered into the stables. There was a chicken coop and one donkey. "Not many animals to keep alive anyway," he remarked. Harley shrugged

"Well, Verity Gibbons stole the horse, but that was the only thing of real value they had. According to the Playfords, Jack was in debt and lost most of his animals about two years ago, a year after he and Verity got married. They've been recovering since."

They both dismounted and tied up their horses in the empty stables. Harley glanced over at the Ranger, failed to meet his eyes under the shadow of his cloak hood, and pretended like she hadn't tried.

"But it could be nothing," she said.

When they stepped inside the house, they were hit with a surprising chill. Perhaps it was actually colder inside, or perhaps it was just the illusion of expecting a warm fire and getting none, but it was dark too. The hearth was dead. The door opened to a conjoined kitchen and sitting room very similar to Will's cabin, except that this place was filthy. Rags and crumbs littered the kitchen table. There was a pile of junk shoved in the corner by the firewood, broken furniture and a broom and old clothing. A strip of a quilt, its edges rumpled and haphazard, hung over the edge of a chair. Not a breath of life in the place.

"Not much of a housekeeper, was she?" asked Will.

"It doesn't seem so." Harley debated on clearing off the table to sit and write, but quickly dismissed that, instead pulling out her folder and a stick of graphite to write as they walked. Best not to touch anything. "Just a quick look here, and then we'll check out how Jack's faring."

"Alright."

She let her eyes slowly scan the room, just as Will was doing. It really was just a mess. But there was something much darker than just that — there were the wildflowers on the windowsill that had been there long enough to crinkle and dry, the shattered plate by the wall,the crack in the wall where the door handle had banged against it. Will saw them but said nothing. Harley saw them and wrote them all down, then went over to the crack in the wall and looked closer at it. Dust had accumulated in the splinters.

"This is an older break," she said. "Someone likes to throw open the front door."

"Do you think it means anything?" asked Will. It was a weighted question; he clearly had his own opinions, but was probing her now.

"Yes," she said carefully. "I think it says that Jack had anger issues."

"It couldn't be Mrs. Gibbons?"

"She was tiny, Will, even smaller than you. Look at the size of her apron. Then look at Jack's coat — huge. Who's more likely to throw open the door, time and time again?"

"Did they have a daughter?"

"No children."

Will took a second more to glance around. Harley made a mental note to ask what he was thinking later, and said, "Let's move on."

The master bedroom was as chilly as the entryway and just as disorganized. A dirty washbin in the corner, a woman's clothes strewn all over the floor, and a dead body curled up on the left side of the bed.

Will and Harley both stepped over the mess, careful not to move anything, and stood over Jack Gibbons.

"He didn't die peacefully," Will whispered.

"I wouldn't imagine he did," replied Harley, her voice thin and trembling.

The man was on his side, his back towards the place where his wife should have slept, his arms and legs tangled in the blankets as if he had been kicking and scrambling to get out. A thin sheet, twisted like a noose around his neck, snaked across the length of the bed and draped its tail across the wife's pillow. The corpse's eyes bulged. Its face looked as if it was once was young and fairly handsome, perhaps in its early twenties. Now it was white and blue, frozen in horror. Harley wrote it all down. Will slowly circled to the other side of the bed, his hand over his mouth.

"The family's coming to bury the body later today," Harley sighed, pausing to rub her head. The curtains were drawn and it was much darker in this room, so she had to strain her eyes to see what she'd written down. God, she was tired. She muttered as she scrawled. "Under the covers...back was to his wife, caught off-guard...noose leading back to her side."

"Her pillow is soaked in blood," said Will flatly.

"Her pillow...soaked in…excuse me, what?"

Wide-eyed, Harley followed Will to the other side of the bed and saw it. Tiny dark droplets of blood sprayed across the pillow, with brighter smears trailing downwards. When Harley pushed back the tail of the twisted sheet, there was even more, a solid and horrible crimson stain the size of a splayed hand, soaked deep into the pillow. The twisted sheet was stained in the place where it had rested against the pillow, smeared on the fabric around the corpse's neck, and also rubbed off in two other places down the length of the twisted sheet — where Verity Gibbons must have held as she pulled the noose tight.

"She was injured," Harley murmured.

"It could have been him," Will told her. She realized that he was right, even though it was Verity's pillow. Jack could have used it to staunch a wound, and it was somehow put back in place. Even still, Harley surreptitiously glanced around the room for more signs of blood or a conflict.

"I'll request an autopsy checking for any open wounds," she said distantly. "And...we can come back again. If we need."

She was looking now at the clothes on the floor, strewn out from the open bottom drawer of a chest of drawers. A woman's undergarments. A faded skirt. A handkerchief with a rose embroidered on it. It made her sad and she wasn't sure why. Her head still hurt.

When they finished looking and found nothing new, they went outside and sat by the stable as Harley wrote more things down.

"Did you find what you were looking for?" asked Will cryptically. Harley didn't know how to answer that at first.

"I don't know yet," she murmured.

"Just need to sleep on it?"

"Mm. I need to talk to Verity."

"That would be nice," replied Will. "Well, she didn't leave a note or anything. Did the Playfords say which direction she rode?"

Harley rubbed her eyes. "No."

"I can go ask."

"Okay."

Will looked at her. The expression on his face might have been concern, but it could have been something else. Harley didn't really care to analyze it and just stared at her parchment. "Is there anything else you need?"

"Ask if Jack had troubles with drinking," she replied blearily, and with that, Will left.

When he returned with his answers (south and sometimes), he expected to find Harley still scribbling furiously, her tiny eyeglasses balanced on her nose. What he didn't expect was to find her sound asleep, slumped in the grass, snoring lightly. Her parchment and graphite had fallen out of her lap.

"I suppose I did tell you to sleep on it," Will told her softly. Naturally, she did not respond.


	4. Chapter 4

**A/N: sorry for the absence; i totally forgot i was posting on this site! i'll double update for you guys so make sure to check out chapter 5 as well**

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When Harley awoke, the first thing she saw was the face of an angel.

She normally wasn't one to exaggerate, especially not with clichés. But this was a special case. Sunny blond curls, tucked under a heather blue shawl and framed by the molten gold light of the window. Dark, curious, long-lashed eyes. A darling pink mouth, parted slightly. The girl bent over her, but pulled back as soon as Harley met her gaze. Her eyes flicked around the room — Harley's own cluttered quarters in Castle Redmont.

"What are you doing here?" Harley asked bluntly.

The pretty girl took another step back, clutching her blue shawl. "I'm s-sorry," she stammered, "I'm, um, they sent me in here to wake you up…"

"Blessing Haylock," said Harley.

The girl froze. "What?"

A thought suddenly occurred to Harley somewhere along the lines of "that might not be her surname anymore". But she sat up and pressed on anyway. "We were best friends as girls? You used to run errands in the castle, and I was a ward — I would loiter in the library and read legal treatises, and you'd share your bread with me? It's you, isn't it, Blessing?"

A light began to dawn in Blessing's eyes, and a small smile broke on her lips. "Harley," she laughed, stepping forward again, "I didn't think you wouldn't recognize me…it's been so long!"

When Blessing touched her shoulder, Harley impulsively hugged her. She was as petite as always, fitting perfectly into Harley's embrace. Her hair and shawl smelled like new, sweet soap.

"Of course I recognized you — you're still the loveliest lass in Redmont Fief!" Harley laughed, pulling back to look at her. "How long has it been? Eight years? Ten?"

"Twenty." Blessing smiled weakly. "We were fifteen, Harley."

Harley rubbed her forehead. "Oh, heavens. I feel old."

"Heh. So do I."

"Where have you been all this time? Do…" Oh, for some reason, Harley didn't want to ask this question. "Do you have a family?"

Blessing's sun-kissed cheeks flushed pink and she pushed a curl back under her shawl. "No. I tried...I don't know why I just never committed. Now I'm Wensley Village's spinster and laundry lady. Have you…?"

"No," Harley chuckled. "Still married to my books."

"Oh...but more than that, surely! You live in the castle, and you're a lawyer — that's what you always wanted to do! When I heard the news about, about my sister, all I could do was hope that it would be you who would help her — "

"Wait," Harley frowned. "Your sister?"

At that, like a candle snuffed out, the light on Blessing's face flickered and dimmed. "My little sister, Verity," she said, melancholy creeping into her voice. "Jack Gibbons' wife."

It took one second for that to sink in, and a couple more for Harley to tumble out of bed.

"Verity!" she gasped. "The hearings — I have to meet with Arald about the evidence! How long have I been asleep?!"

"Four hours…?"

"Oh God, too long! I can't believe it, falling asleep on the job, excuse me while I run frantically around my room and strip down to the nude, also pardon the mess, where's a clean dress when I need one — "

"I hung one up by your washbasin, and I tidied a little too — "

"Thank you! Oh, heaven's glory. I can't believe it. Slept through a pre-trial hearing. The prosecutor is going to give me an earful for this. I'm so stupid, I'll be right quick. Oh God. Where are my glasses, where are my glasses, where are my — ah, found 'em. Oh, bloody hellfire. Pardon my Gallican, Blessing. Also pardon me screaming about my stress in a few seconds."

"Oh — okay…?"

" _AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAUUUUGH!"_

"Oh."

"Right. I'm done. That was therapeutic."

Once Harley was dressed respectably, and after she let Blessing pin her wild black hair into something vaguely round, she snatched up her leather folder and her notes and her credentials and on second thought a small bread loaf from the plate of dinner which she had neglected last night. That was certainly a sight to see — a very frazzled attorney and a laundry girl stumbling down Castle Redmont's halls together. Harley had long since mastered the art of cram-reading as she walked through the halls, somehow able to avoid crashing into pageboys and castle guards even while squinting through her inch-thick reading glasses, and she did this now with a handful of her notes that she'd taken from the Gibbons' farmhouse.

They met up with Will in an anteroom, where he was seated by a pair of huge mahogany double doors. He still wore his Ranger's cloak and his array of weapons, but his hood was down. He was trying not to bounce his leg. It was funny, Harley took a second to remark to herself, how even a master of unseen movement couldn't help but bounce his leg when sitting in a chair.

"Good! She's awake," said Will, standing.

"Apparently," replied Harley, fiddling with her bodice. "What did I miss?"

"Not much at all, believe it or not. I had to submit all my observations to Baron Arald and I met with the prosecution — they're kind of a mess. They just returned from their own visit to the farmhouse."

"Brilliant. Let's go greet them, then."

Taking a deep breath, Harley led the way, pushing past the mahogany doors and into the office.


	5. Chapter 5

The room, as a typical pre-trial hearing would call for, was split three ways with three tables. An empty one on the right for defense. A rather full one on the left for prosecution. A desk facing both, at which Baron Arald and his secretary Martin sat. As Harley and Blessing sat at the defense table, Will slipped past them and sat next to Baron Arald.

Harley made the mistake of glancing over to the prosecution — just to check. There were three people, including a middle-aged woman, a burly young man, and a thin, smirking prosecutor who met Harley's eyes. Unfortunately, she knew the prosecutor. His name was Octavian Moore and he had been exactly one mark above her in Scribeschool, and he never let her forget that; in return, she never let him forget that he had lost half his hair in his twenties. He wore a velvet suit to every occasion, which said enough about him on its own, and Harley was pretty sure that his wife was locked in the kitchen as she had heard of the sons in his house, but no women.

"Good morning, Miss Gableden," Moore smiled innocuously. "I trust your beauty sleep was beneficial?"

Harley forced a polite smile. "It was, Mr. Moore, thank you."

"Indeed?"

"Yes. You should try it. Perhaps you might start winning cases."

Moore was an expert at monitoring his facial expressions, but Harley was an expert at reading them. His lips tightened, and he covered it up with a chuckle, but even for how immature the jibe was Harley could tell it bothered him. Suddenly she felt a little more confident about herself.

At the front table, Martin the secretary stood and began to slap the table with his hand. Harley always wondered if he was trying to imitate a gavel, in which case she hoped nobody ever gave him one.

"Alright, the hearing will begin shortly! Take your seats, take your seats," Martin called, despite the fact that he was the only one standing.

"Thank you, Martin," said Baron Arald wearily. He looked out at the five people at the tables and sighed. "Now. We will begin the hearing for the murder of Jack Gibbons."

"He was an innocent man!" burst from the prosecution's table. It was the woman, her face red and fists clenched. "He was my son! He was a good man! He — "

"Not now, Helena," Moore cut in, placing his hand on her shoulder. "You'll have your justice soon enough. My lord, please excuse the interruption of a grieving mother."

Baron Arald respectfully did, carefully not meeting Helena's glare of death. "Excused," he said, then turned to Will. "Ranger Will, please outline the facts of the case."

Will stood, holding some of the same notes that Harley had used before. "This morning, between two and three o'clock, twenty-one-year-old Jack Gibbons was murdered in his bed. The cause of death was strangulation by a twisted bedsheet. Jack was otherwise uninjured, as confirmed by the castle coroner. He was awake at the time of death. Witnesses included Benny and Joan Playford, the proprietors of the neighboring farm, who said they heard Jack screaming for help before running to the crime scene. Both witnesses saw Jack's wife, the nineteen-year-old Verity Haylock Gibbons, fleeing the scene of the crime on a horse."

Moore turned his head like a vulture and gave Harley a smarmy look. They both knew what the look said. _How are you going to get out of this one, Miss Gableden?_

Will looked visibly disturbed at having to read, but pushed on. "I conducted a brief investigation of the house at eight in the morning, accompanied by Miss Harley Gableden, the public defender assigned to Verity Gibbons. Verity left no known clues to her motives or whereabouts. As it stands, she was the only person in the house at the time that Jack was assaulted." He paused, then said, "That was the overview, my lord."

"Thank you, Will," said Baron Arald. "Does the assembly wish to add any statements of general interest?"

"I do, my lord," said Harley.

"Proceed."

"My lord, Ranger Will's investigation took note of a fairly large bloodstain on Verity Gibbons' pillow, as well as blood elsewhere in the bedroom. Would this not be considered vital to further investigation?"

Baron Arald did not answer this directly, instead turning to look at the prosecution. "Mr. Moore, care to explain?"

"Yes, my lord." Moore stood, clearing his throat. "Miss Gableden, while you were taking your rest, I conferred with the Ranger on the areas of foremost interest in this case. We came to the agreement that any pre-existing injury of Verity Gibbons is irrelevant to her murdering her husband."

Harley met his eyes, unflinching. The way Moore presented it, the bloodstain did seem very petty compared to the corpse in the bed. Still...

"Irrelevant?" Harley repeated. "Ranger Will specifically stated that Verity left no clue to her motives. If she was bleeding so much that it soaked through a feather pillow, then I must say that could affect her motives for many things!"

Moore just chuckled. "Blood can come from many places, sweetheart. I do have a wife, you know."

It would not do to say that Harley snapped. But she was awfully close. So she just nodded and replied calmly, "Octavian, if your wife is regularly tucking a pillow between her thighs, then you're not doing your job as a husband."

"Pardon!" Moore gasped, and there was a low chaos following. Blessing's mouth fell open, amazed. Helena Gibbons took the opportunity to stand up and yell equally obscene things at Harley, while the spacey young man next to her seemed to be very interested in a charcoal smudge on the wall. Both Baron Arald and Will had very convenient coughing fits that required they cover their mouths with their hands. Martin stood up and began slapping the table very, very hard.

"Order in the court!" he hollered. It wasn't a real court yet. He just liked to say that. "Order in the court! Miss Gableden, that was highly inappropriate, and the Baron — "

"The Baron," Baron Arald interjected, the hint of a smile on his lips, "will respectfully move us away from this conversation. The blood will be added to the list, Miss Gableden. Moving on."

Harley brightened, feeling pretty good about herself. Then she saw Moore glaring at her and she felt even better.

"Details aside, I believe both the prosecution and defense can agree that there's enough evidence for a trial," said Arald. The lawyers on both sides nodded. "Then that's it! We're done for now. Let's go have lunch."

"One moment, my lord," Will interjected softly, "we need to have Verity to have a trial."

Embarrassment dawned on Arald's face. "I'm getting old," he murmured, then sinking down back into his chair. "Right. How do you propose we find her?"

"I can find her, my lord, but I need to work closely with someone who knew her well. That's why I requested for Blessing Haylock, Verity's sister."

All eyes went to the girl sitting beside Hedley, and she shrunk into the safety of her shawl.

"Excuse me, my lord." Harley spoke up again.

"Proceed," said Baron Arald.

"I request to accompany Ranger Will and Miss Haylock. For Miss Haylock's sake, of course, but also my client's and my own. Will can do what he needs when the time comes, but I need to connect with my client as soon as possible."

Arald raised an eyebrow. "Do you not trust Ranger Will with finding her?"

"I do trust him, my lord. But chances are, Verity does not. I have had clients who would have been very willing to talk where they were, quote, 'free', but closed their mouths like steel traps after being caught and dragged into the walls of Redmont. Especially by a Ranger — no offense, Will."

"None taken," Will shrugged.

"Well, Will?" asked Arald. "Is that whole arrangement alright by you?"

Will looked as if he had things to say, but held them in. "I don't see why not."

"Now excuse me," Moore cut in, causing Harley to sigh inadvertently. "With all due respect, my lord. But there's still a very good chance that this girl isn't gallivanting through the forests — she could be hiding in the villages, under our very noses. Should we not warn the common people of her?"

Arald's brow furrowed. "How so?"

Moore adjusted his sleeve cuff idly. "Well, alerting local garrisons, for one. And posters, of course. With Verity's likeness, a reward, 'WANTED, DEAD OR ALIVE' and all that. Those are typically very successful."

"Are we trying to bring justice or start a witch-hunt?" Harley muttered. Moore ignored her.

" 'Dead or alive' seems to imply that we're going to kill her anyway," said Baron Arald hesitantly. "And we don't know if we will. So please omit that."

Next to Moore, Helena Gibbons swore, as if she had really wanted to sic a witch hunt on her daughter-in-law.

"Will?" asked Arald. "Do you approve of the posters?"

"I don't see why not, my lord," Will replied.

"Then that's settled as well. Are there any other pressing matters on the table?"

There was a general silence, and then Will said, "None, my lord."

"Then you all are dismissed. Let justice be served."


End file.
